augury doggerel

Tuesday, December 10, 2002


I've been sitting at the bar for twenty minutes and my nails are still blue, the backs of my hands white renaissance craquelure. On the radio, Oh, need you, Oh, love you, an entire song hung on one bell. In the corner, an intense woman whose name might be Blanche Davidian looks through rugby trophies to apply madagascar to her brows. Leaning in the doorway to the back, the cook sneezes into his palm and wipes it on his jeans. "Good health," calls the bartender without looking up from his soup, and the cook retreats to the kitchen.


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